I drank from a previously unopened water bowser and wolfed several
nutratabs.
Then I stumbled over to the shuttler, secured the recorder and
interrogation setup, raised the star ship, and brought Moya up to date.
"I'm going to move this vehicle to the hillside and spend the night
there. I figure I'd better give E-T a full twenty-six hour rotation
interval to come up with something before the next step. Tomorrow, I'm
going to need a man down here to witness the location and disposition of
the corpses. You know the drill. It's your decision whether they should
be identified singly, if possible, and secured for removal to Terra, or
whether they should be interred here, commonly. My recommendation is to
make a film record and plant them, but I'm too tired to argue. One thing
more: whoever you send--if he gives me any lip, I'll cut him down like a
small tree. There's been enough mistakes made here already."
I spent the night in the shuttler. Call it an atavistic response to the
unknowns of darkness.
It was a restless interval between dusk and dawn.
Occasionally, I illuminated the hillside and surrounding area. A couple
of times, I glimpsed the eye reflections of small animals. They seemed
to possess the shyness of most nocturnal creatures. But I couldn't help
wondering--
Morning dawned gloomily; there was a light mist hanging over the
streambed, and much of the sky was turgid with clouds.
I gave the star ship the go-ahead and specified dispatch because of the
threatening weather.
Moya mentioned plastibags, a filmer, and a porto-digger. His decision
was obvious. I figured it wise but had the uncomfortable picture of a GS
representative trying to explain the reasons to bereaved relatives.
I spent a few moments going over meteorological details. As I recalled
from the tapes, this was the rainy season. Judging from the look of the
area, it could use precipitation. Things were growing, but the stream
was mostly dry, and the plain seemed parched. Apparently the mountains
blocked much of it.
Sitting on hands has never been my delight, so I exited the shuttler and
went down the hill for another look-see.
Insects buzzed noisily; the air seemed heavy and oppressive; but nothing
had changed--there was no evidence of the creatures I'd seen during the
night.
It took about an hour for the shuttler from 250 to show.
In the interval, several things happened.
The first was a perceptive darkening of the sky, followed by a light,
preliminary shower. I'd anticipated that, and was considering heading
back for the bug suit when the second occurred.
[Illustration]
I'm not going to offer excuses. From the advantage of retrospection, you
can say what you want about slipshod detective work. The point remains
that I'd covered the area more than cursorily and had not encountered
anything specifically dangerous.
The timing was pure luck.
The shuttler penetrated the overcast about ten miles off target,
located, and started its approach.
And something bit me on the leg.
I pulled up my pant's leg immediately, hoping to catch the culprit, but
saw nothing save a thin red line about an inch long. It looked more a
scratch than an insect bite. But I hadn't brushed against anything.
The shuttler grounded on the hilltop, and I headed up.
Perhaps it was exertion that speeded the reaction.
There was no pain, only a local numbness.
Before I'd traveled ten yards, my leg from the knee almost to the ankle
felt prickly asleep.